Glimpses
by TT-5
Summary: A series of snapshots set during and immediately after the war mostly focusing on Foyle and Andrew.
1. Chapter 1

1940

"Mr. Foyle? A telegram came for you while you were out."

It was rather amazing how a simple phrase, one he had heard so many times over the years, had the power to fill him with almost over-powering dread. "Th-thank you Rivers"

He took the telegram, resolving not to look at it until he was safely in his office and then continued down the corridor, listening to, but not retaining, what Milner was saying.

Finally they reached his office and he turned to find his sergeant watching him with guarded concern; clearly he hadn't been nearly as convincing just now as he might have hoped.

He took his time hanging up his hat and coat and then cleared his throat, "Right well why don't you follow that up? Let me know how you get on."

"Yes Sir." Milner hesitated and for a moment Foyle thought he was going to speak again but instead Milner offered him a brief smile and left the office, careful to shut the door behind him.

Foyle crossed slowly to the desk and sat down, taking a moment to straighten the already straight piles of reports on his desk before placing the telegram down in front of him. ' _This is ridiculous! It is most likely a reply to the request I sent to London this morning, completely unrelated to…'_

He shook his head before he could finish the thought and taking a deep breath picked up the telegram before he could change his mind. His fingers shook as he opened it and he had to let his breath out slowly before he could focus on dark text.

A moment later the telegram was back on the desk and he was pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to regulate his heart rate. He hadn't moved when a knock sounded on his door almost a quarter of an hour later.

Foyle sat up and ran a hand over his face, trying to drag his mind back to the present. The knock sounded again and he hastily picked up a report as he called for them to enter. To his immense relief the door opened to reveal not Milner or Sam but instead Hugh Reid carrying a tea tray.

Reid gave him a sharp look and then closed the door and crossed to the desk. He set the tray down handing Foyle a mug of tea before taking his own and sitting down across from him.

Foyle took a sip and immediately noticed that Reid had added sugar. He raised an eyebrow, "Something you wanted Hugh?"

Reid shook his head, "Rivers said you'd had a telegram."

Icy fear flooded through him again and he had to take a long drink of tea before he could answer, "Yes, from London, about a case." He felt more than saw Reid relax and glanced up, giving his friend a weak smile, "He's all right Hugh or at least I hope he is."

Reid nodded, "I'm sure he's fine Christopher." They drank their tea in silence and then Hugh got to his feet, "Well as nice as your office is I'd better get back to the duty roster; bloody nightmare trying to make sure everyone gets a few days off with us so undermanned."

Foyle nodded, "I can imagine. Thanks for the tea."

"Anytime Christopher." Alone again Foyle glanced at the telegram and then placed it and the report aside and pulled out several sheets of letter paper and picking up his pen.

 _Dear Andrew…_


	2. Chapter 2

1940

The persistent ringing of the telephone pulled Foyle from sleep and as soon as he realized what it was he felt sick with fear. Not bothering with slippers or a dressing gown he hurried downstairs hesitating for a long terrible moment before picking up the receiver.

"Foyle here"

"Hello Dad"

Foyle let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding at the sound of his son's voice, " _Andrew_ , are you all right?"

"Yes, are you? You sound rather frazzled."

Foyle gave a half chuckle as he ran a hand over his face, "Well it is nearly two in the morning Andrew…"

"Is it? Oh Christ I'm sorry Dad I had no idea! We just got in from an op, thirty minutes ago I guess and I…well it's been a rough few days, I suppose I just wanted to check that you were all right. Sorry I woke you, I should let you get back to sleep."

"It's fine Andrew, I'm glad you called. But shouldn't you be trying to get some sleep?"

Andrew sighed, "Probably…"

He sounded so reluctant that Foyle frowned deeply, "What is it Andrew?"

There was a long pause and then Andrew gave a slightly watery chuckle, "I never can fool you can I Dad?" He sighed and then continued, "I know I should try and sleep and I am tired, god I'm tired…"

"But?" Foyle prompted softly.

"But I'm also tired of the dreams, they always come back Dad. I'll get a few hours and then…"

Foyle frowned, "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault"

There was a pause and then Foyle began to talk, about the river, about how, according to Hugh, Grace had asked if Mr. Churchill sounded grumpy on the wireless because his head was cold.

Andrew's burst of laughter made him happier than he could remember being in weeks and encouraged him to carry on in the same manner until his throat began to feel dry. Finally he heard Andrew yawn and broke off mid-sentence, "Andrew?"

"Sorry Dad"

"Don't be, think you can sleep now?"

"Yes I think so…Thanks Dad. I am sorry for waking you so late but thanks…"

The relief and gratitude in Andrew's voice was palpable and Foyle had to swallow hard before he could reply. "Anytime Andrew, I mean it. Get off to bed, I hope you sleep well."

"Thanks Dad, you too."

Foyle waited until he heard the click of the receiver and then hung up. His feet were frozen from standing barefoot in the cold hall for fifteen minutes but it was a price he was more than willing to pay to hear his son's voice and, he hoped, bring him some peace however temporary.


	3. Chapter 3

1940

Foyle poured the tea and then paused, his own cup halfway to his lips as he watched Andrew take a gulp of his tea before beginning to eat with a speed that was very reminiscent of his adolescent years. He opened his mouth to comment before closing it again as he recognized this for what it was, a learned behavior.

At some point during the last few weeks Andrew had _learned_ to gulp his tea and eat his food as if it might run off his plate to ensure that he actually got something to eat between scrambles. He put his cup back down throat suddenly too tight to swallow.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

He looked up to find Andrew studying him a slight frown creasing his forehead, "You alright?"

Foyle nodded and forced a smile, "Yup, sorry just err thinking…" He took a sip of tea, "So what are you going to do today?"

"Thought I might take Maggie and Gracie to the park"

Foyle smiled, "Sure they'd like that." For a moment he could pretend everything was normal and Andrew was just home from Oxford for the weekend.

Then Andrew finished his tea in one gulp immediately poured himself more and then continued to shovel food into his mouth. Foyle bit the inside of his cheek and wondered if anything would ever be normal again


	4. Chapter 4

January 1941

The envelope was thicker than normal and Andrew turned it over in his hands as if that would help him determine if it held good or bad news.

There was bad news everyday around here, more of it than he could stomach at times but the idea of bad news from home made him feel sick. He took a long drink of tea and then the siren sounded so he tucked the envelope into his pocket and headed for his spit.

It was hours later when Andrew finally settled in a quiet corner of the mess with a cup of tea and pulled the envelope out of his pocket again. He ran a finger along the flap, watching the paper tear unevenly and remembering how grown up he had felt when Mum had let him use the letter opener to open her letters when he was four.

He frowned slightly as he pulled a bundle of magazine clippings out along with the letter. Placing the clippings aside he smoothed out the letter and took a sip of tea as he began to read.

 _Dear Andrew,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. Has the poor weather been much of a problem? Selfishly I hope it's kept you safely on the ground but expect that isn't very realistic so I hope that at the very least you've been careful._

Andrew shook his head; ' _Of course Dad would hope the storm would keep me grounded…rather wish it had…'_

 _I ran into Charles when I was in London the other day and apart from being busy he and Alice are well although Alice is apparently quite concerned that the RAF isn't feeding you properly. You may want to write them if you get the chance. I know they'd be very glad to hear from you but Charles did stress that you weren't to fuss about it._

 _I had dinner with the Reids the other night and you would scarcely believe how tall Maggie is now, she would appear to be taking after Hugh in that regard. Both girls asked after you, Grace in particular wanted to know why you "couldn't just fly your airplane home." She doesn't really understand any of this (thank God)._

Andrew took a long drink of tea as he reread the paragraph about the Reids. It had been months since he saw them and though Dad was very good about including stories about the girls in his letters it still made his heartache to know how much they were growing up while he was away.

 _I suppose you are wondering what the magazine clippings are about. You mentioned in your letter a few weeks ago that you were sick of only reading briefings but were usually too tired to read the books you have with you. I came across one of the 'Short Story' magazines at the station the other day and it was open to a story that struck me as something you might enjoy so I thought I'd send it to you (don't worry I bought my own copy)._

 _If you would like more please let me know but I won't be offended if it's not your cup of tea. Speaking of which Sam just brought me one so I'd better go._

 _Take care Andrew,_

 _Dad_

Andrew put the letter down and picked up the neat stack of clippings. Each page had been cut from the magazine with almost surgical precision and Dad had even sewn them into a loose booklet with what appeared to be fishing line ' _Typical Dad!'_

Dad clearly had put a great deal of time into this, no matter how straightforward he had tried to make it sound in his letter. Andrew swallowed hard; it was so like Dad to find a solution to a problem that he had only voiced because it seemed small enough that Dad _wouldn't_ fret about it.

He ran a hand over his face and then chuckled softly when he read the title of the story his father had selected. It sounded very similar to a story that had been a favorite of his when he was a boy, something Dad would well remember as he had read it to Andrew almost every night for several months.

Andrew swallowed the last of his tea, tucked the letter and story carefully into his pocket and headed for the barracks. It had been a very long day and the idea of ending it curled up in his bunk with the story Dad had just sent him was very appealing. ' _I'll have to write Dad first thing tomorrow…'_


	5. Chapter 5

February 1946

They were both up earlier than usual and ate a small breakfast in near silence. The weather was appropriately dismal although Andrew went back and forth on that; Mum had always preferred sunny days after all.

It was like some strange dance they both knew by heart and Andrew shivered at the thought. "All right?" Dad asked quietly, looking at him worriedly.

Andrew nodded hating the way Dad always looked every year of his age and then some on this day. They had reached the church and silently made their way into the graveyard.

Standing beside Dad, in front of Mum's headstone made him feel like a little boy all over again and he had to resist the urge to take Dad's hand. Instead he placed his small bouquet of flowers and took a half step back to give Dad a bit more space.

They stood there for almost half an hour then Dad placed his own flowers and they silently walked away. "Your Mum would be so proud of you Andrew" Dad said at last, his voice slightly choked.

Andrew swallowed hard "Thanks Dad." He bit his lip for a minute and then continued, "She'd be proud of you too you know, carrying on all this time, keeping me in line, being DCS. She'd have been proud of all of that."

Dad's hand gripped his elbow firmly for a moment, "Thank you Andrew." He couldn't disguise the tears in his voice but Andrew pretended not to notice, instead bumping his shoulder gently against Dad's as they walked on.


	6. Chapter 6

May 1945

The sharp ring of the telephone cut through the room and Andrew immediately put his book aside and reached down to check his shoelaces. Foyle frowned slightly at the unusual response but before he could comment the telephone rang again and he went to answer it.

It was the station and as he listened to Sergeant Brooke Foyle moved so he could look into the lounge. Andrew was sitting stiffly in his chair, eyes closed breathing carefully controlled and Foyle frowned.

The situation was one he felt comfortable delegating so he explained what he would like done and asked Brooke to call when the matter had been resolved or if there were any further complications.

Andrew's eyes snapped open as soon as Foyle entered the lounge and he surged to his feet, "Scramble? How many? Where are they coming from?" The questions were quick but calm and Foyle could see Andrew mentally calculating whatever a squadron leader might need to calculate before a mission.

His son was staring intently at him and Foyle took a deep breath, trying to ensure his voice would be calm when he replied. "There isn't a scramble Andrew, you're back in Hastings. It was Sgt. Brooke calling about something that had come up at the station."

Andrew frowned at him for a minute and then sat down heavily in the chair running a hand over his face, "Sorry."

"Don't be"

"It's just…I thought…stupid…"

"Not at all"

Andrew snorted and Foyle sighed as he sat down across from him, chewing on his cheek as he contemplated his response. "Andrew, for the last 5 years a telephone call _has_ meant a scramble and you've only been home a week. You have to give yourself time to adjust."

Andrew nodded mutely but the hand he ran through his hair was shaking and Foyle frowned. "Tea?" He offered after the silence had stretched for several minutes.

"That would be great, thanks Dad." Andrew's smile was weak, his shaking hands clenched tightly in his lap.

They didn't talk about the fact that Foyle only filled Andrew's mug ¾ full or that he needed both hands to bring it to his lips. Instead Foyle talked about a book he was reading (a topic that didn't actually require Andrew's input) until the shaking finally subsided and Andrew gave him a grateful smile.


	7. Chapter 7

June 1945

Andrew was in the middle of telling him about how an impromptu football match had commenced when his squadron had been stood down for a few hours just before the "Battle of Britain" (as Churchill had christened it) had truly begun.

Foyle's lips turned down into a smile as Andrew spoke with more enthusiasm than he had seen in over a week. The happiness of the memory providing a glimpse of the boy his son had been before the war, something he had seen all too rarely since Andrew came home.

Suddenly there was the unmistakable sound of a plane flying over the house and Foyle froze, his fork halfway to his mouth as he watched his son drop his cutlery with a clatter and dive under the table.

He lowered his own cutlery slowly and pushed his chair back so he could peer under the table. "Andrew?"

"Get down man!"

Andrew's eyes were filled with fear although he was clearly trying to disguise it and Foyle's heart ached at the sight. "Andrew we're…" he began before realizing that trying to explain now would only make things worse.

He pushed his chair back further and then awkwardly crawled under the table to join his son. He couldn't be sure how much time had passed but finally Andrew gave him a weak smile, "I'll go have a look around, make sure everyone's all right. Stay put until I say otherwise all right? Squadron Leader's orders."

Foyle nodded mutely; the lump that had formed in his throat at this glimpse of his son's leadership during the war making it impossible for him to speak, even if he'd known what to say. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in his knees as he watched Andrew crawl out from under the table.

There was a moment of heavy silence, hurried footsteps and then Andrew was calling him, his voice thick with fear, "DAD? Dad where are you?"

Foyle rushed out from under the table, bumping his head and shin in the process, and staggered to his feet looking around for his son. "Andrew?"

There was a pause and then running feet and suddenly he was staggeringly again as Andrew threw himself into his arms with a half-chocked murmur of _"Dad_."

Foyle frowned and patted Andrew's back a little awkwardly, "It's all right Andrew I'm fine."

Andrew drew back and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, "Sorry just…well the raid and then you not being here…for a moment I thought…"

Foyle nodded brow furrowing with concern as he chewed his cheek, "I understand but it wasn't a raid Andrew. The war's over now, it was just a plane flying over the house."

Andrew blinked at him for a minute and then looked around the room before sinking down into one of the dinning room chairs. "I thought…it was just like…Christ!"

Foyle had poured them each a finger of scotch and now pressed one of the cut-glass tumblers into Andrew's shaking hand. "It gave me a start too Andrew, probably gave everyone one, hard not too after the last few years."

"Anyone else hide under the table?"

"I did."

There was a moment of silence and then Andrew looked up and smiled weakly. Twenty minutes later they were in the kitchen doing the washing up, both trying to act as if nothing unusual had happened and Foyle couldn't help wondering how much longer it would be before that would actually be true.


	8. Chapter 8

May 1945

Andrew was sitting by the fire, head down pinching the bridge of his nose and he didn't look up when his father came into the room.

Foyle frowned, "Andrew, are you all right?"

Andrew's head jerked up and he immediately forced a weak smile, "Fine."

"Andrew…"

"Just a slight headache, nothing to worry about." Andrew's tone was firm, clearly intended to forestall any argument.

"Taken anything?"

Andrew shook his head minutely, "Won't help."

Foyle frowned deeply, "Why not put your head down for a bit then, see if that helps?"

Andrew snorted; "You know I can't, not while we're on stand…" he trailed off, suddenly ashen.

"Andrew?" Foyle prompted finally as the silence stretched, increasingly concerned by the pallor of his son's face.

"I thought…" Andrew began and then his face took on a greenish tinge and he rushed into the kitchen. A minute later Foyle heard retching and couldn't help hoping Andrew had made it to the sink.

Before he could follow his son the telephone rang and well aware that that wouldn't help Andrew's current situation he detoured to answer it, silently cursing the unknown caller for their lack of timing.

Five minutes later he made his way into the kitchen and found Andrew leaning against the counter, washing away the mess in the sink.

"Let me do that"

Andrew started and then swayed and Foyle quickly caught his elbow and guided him into one of the two kitchen chairs, "Steady on."

"S-sorry"

It wasn't the apology as much as the embarrassment in Andrew's voice that worried Foyle and he studied his son under furrowed brows. "Why? Not your fault you're feeling ill."

"But I…I thought…" Andrew looked up, his brown eyes awash with consternation, "I was sitting in our living room and I thought I was on standby Dad! How can anything be _normal_ again if I can't bloody remember where I am!"

Foyle didn't answer, instead pouring a glass of water and stirring in some bicarbonate before setting it on the table in front of Andrew, "Sip that if you can."

Andrew obeyed and Foyle turned to finish with the sink, wanting to give himself a little more time to think. Finally he turned around and cleared his throat, "Andrew…it takes time…"

He trailed off fidgeting with his tie and trying to remember what Rosalind had said to him after a similar episode when he was first home. _"The world's changed Christopher and so have we, none of us are who we were before the war. Things can't be as they were but that doesn't mean that can't be as good or even better but it will take time my darling,"_

"We are none of us who we were before the war Andrew but you get through it. Made it this far haven't we?"

Andrew nodded mutely his whole body strung with tension and Foyle sighed. "Give yourself time son and don't try and do it on your own…I couldn't have done it without your Mum."

Andrew nodded his eyes suddenly bright and Foyle squeezed the back of his neck gently, "Want to try and rest now?"

Andrew nodded again and finished the last of the bicarbonate and water before pushing himself to his feet. He swayed slightly and Foyle gripped his elbow firmly, "I'm alright" Andrew insisted, "Just my eyes are a little dodgy sometimes…the sinusitis…"

Foyle frowned, "Right…maybe just the settee then?"

"Yeah"

They made it to the living room without incident and Andrew toed off his shoes before curling up on his side as his father spread a blanket over him. "Thanks Dad."

"Not at all, just try and rest I'll be here if you need anything." Andrew fell asleep almost instantly but Foyle stayed where he was; thinking of the days before the war, before Rosalind's death, when Andrew's feet hadn't come close to touching the end of the settee and his arms had still been enough to keep his boy safe.


	9. Chapter 9

1944

Foyle stooped to pick the morning post up off the mat flicking through the letters as he moved back toward the table where his cup of tea was waiting to be finished.

The last envelope bore his name in Andrew's distinctive hand and he hastily opened it and settled down to read the first letter he'd had from his son in weeks.

 _Dear Dad,_

 _Sorry it's been so long since I wrote, time has a way of getting away from you here. You know I think Shakespeare was right all along about conflict (war); it really is "much to do with hate but more with love." I don't hate the Germans, Hitler and Goering being obvious exceptions, but they aren't the ones I'm flying against. In the main I'm flying against men like me (boys most likely at this point) who are fighting for the same reason I am, love._

 _Not love of fighting. I love flying Dad but the rest of it, well it's a necessary evil as WingCo says. No it's love for everyone at home, the lads I'm flying with, for England. That's what keeps me in the air._

 _I hate the war Dad, hate what it's made me do_ _(makes me do everyday)_ _. I hate having to try and explain it to lads who don't seem old enough to be here in the first place and I hate knowing you're home worrying about me. But the reasons I'm flying are stronger than the hate. So at the end of the day all of this is, "much to do with hate but more with love."_

 _I say this has started to resemble an English paper! Sorry Dad. I should probably try and get some sleep so I'll sign off now._

 _I hope you are well and work (and rationing) hasn't gotten too bad._

 _Take care Dad,_

 _Andrew_

Foyle let the letter flutter to the table as he chewed on his cheek, blinking rapidly, tea long forgotten. He rubbed his forehead and then read the letter again. It was so _Andrew_.

His son had long surprised him by offering insightful comments at unexpected moments. Like when he was ten and had looked up from playing in the river and said; "I know it's important to learn dates and things at school but I think it's more important to learn to think, otherwise no one will know what to do when there's a new problem that doesn't have an answer yet."

Foyle had been so dumbfounded by this that he had ruined his cast and before he could try and formulate a reply Andrew had switched topics and was prattling on about something else.

Now, after not writing in weeks, he had seen fit to use Shakespeare to demonstrate just how mature he had become in the last 4 years. Gone was the boy who had heading off to Scotland saying that the Germans had to be stopped "come hell or high water" and in his place there was a man who understood war in all it's moral and emotional complexity.

A knock sounded on the door. Foyle rubbed a hand across his face and picked up the letter; folding it carefully and slipping it back into its envelope. He fiddled with his cuff-links as he went to let Sam in, trying to marshal his emotions; he would write to Andrew this evening, in the meantime he had a job to do.


	10. Chapter 10

1945

Foyle came into the kitchen and froze as he watched his very right-handed son attempting to butter his toast with his left hand.

"Andrew?"

Andrew looked up, his smile becoming a frown as he caught sight of the look on his father's face. "Dad, something wrong?"

Foyle raised an eyebrow "You tell me."

Andrew looked confused as he glanced around but then his gaze fell on his breakfast and Foyle saw comprehension dawn. A moment later, what he had come to think of as Andrew's 'squadron leader face' slipped into place. "I'm fine Dad."

Foyle gave him a disbelieving look but Andrew had clearly decided that silence was his best option and had returned his focus to buttering his toast, still left handed. Foyle sighed and sat down across from him, taking advantage Andrew's apparent absorption in his task to study his son carefully.

His right hand certainly looked fine as it rested on the tabletop, so he was no closer to understanding Andrew's strange decision to use his non-dominant hand. When it became clear that Andrew had no intention of breaking the silence, Foyle took a sip of tea, "Just fancied a change?"

" _Dad_ "

"Andrew"

They stared at each other for a long minute and then Andrew put the butter knife down and ran his left hand through his hair. "Fine. You have to promise not to fuss though."

He glanced up and Foyle's chest suddenly felt tight. Andrew's brown eyes, so like Rosalind's, were serious in a way he had rarely seen before the war, aged before their time.

Foyle blinked and bit hard on his cheek. Andrew was clearly waiting for his answer so he forced himself to nod and when the silence stretched, gave his son a pointed look.

Andrew sighed "Well it's just that my arm's a little sore, muscles got a bit strained from all the flying, holding the controls you know. Happened to most of the lads at one time or another."

Foyle frowned, not at all reassured by his son's casual tone, "Right and it's sore now because…"

Andrew shrugged, "Must have slept funny or something. Nothing to worry about Dad."

Foyle made a non-committal noise as he studied his son under furrowed brows, "So what do we do?"

"Nothing really, just rest it when I'm not on…" Andrew swallowed hard and then continued, "Should be fine by tomorrow, day after at the latest." He caught his father's eye and forced a smile, "I'm fine Dad."

Foyle chewed on his cheek to stop himself from pointing out that he clearly _wasn't_ and instead asked, "Would a sling help? Think we've still got one lying around from last time…"

He trailed off remembering the icy dread that had washed over him when he'd received the call that Andrew was injured and in hospital.

Andrew hesitated and then nodded, "Yeah, all right…thanks Dad."

Foyle nodded and forced a weak smile. Finishing the last of his tea he went to look for the sling wondering just how many scars, physical and otherwise, Andrew had come home with.


	11. Chapter 11

May 1945

Andrew came downstairs, still in his uniform except for exchanging his jacket for a jumper and stopped in the doorway of the lounge. Dad was sitting in his chair by the fire, a cup of tea halfway to his lips, eyes focused on the book in his lap.

He blinked expecting the scene to vanish. It didn't and suddenly he was shaking, so badly his legs didn't seem able to hold him up. He leant against the doorframe but it wasn't enough and a moment later he was sitting on the floor.

"Andrew!" The voice seemed to come from a distance but when he opened his eyes Dad was crouching right in front of him his eyes dark with concern.

"D-d-ad?"

Dad nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder, "Yes Andrew, I'm here"

"D-d-ream?"

Dad's eyes were suddenly sad and when he spoke his voice was very gentle, "No Andrew, you're home. You've been discharged and you arrived home today, you're home for good."

Andrew stared at him scarcely daring to believe his ears, a few tears running down his cheeks. Dad's hand tightened on his shoulder and Andrew leant forward, hiding his face in his father's shoulder as if he were a little boy again.

Finally the tears eased but neither of them pulled away so Andrew's words were muffled when he spoke, "So many times I thought I'd never come home again Dad. Sometimes I'd lie on my bunk…try and remember and…I _couldn't_ …felt like a sign…that I wasn't meant to come home…"

" _Andrew_ " Dad sounded gutted, his shudder running through them both.

Andrew waited a few minutes longer and then drew back slightly, reaching into his jumper to pull something from the breast pocket of his tunic. It was an old photograph, the one Dad had given him the day he left for Oxford and his parents' faces stared back at him as he smoothed it out.

"If I hadn't had this I'm not sure I'd have made it, if I'd forgotten you and Mum…" Andrew trailed off with a shudder that his father echoed before continuing in the same hoarse voice, "When I looked at it I could remember the good times, remember what I was fighting for, it gave me something to hold on to Dad."

"I'm glad" Dad murmured his voice almost as hoarse as Andrew's "I'm so glad you're home again Andrew," he whispered, "so very glad."

It wasn't how he had pictured his first evening at home but it was, Andrew realized, exactly what he needed.


	12. Chapter 12 - The Letter - part 1

1944

 _Please don't worry if you don't hear from me for a while I don't expect to have much time to write and even if I did I wouldn't be allowed to talk about it, you know how things are._

Foyle frowned, chewing hard on check. He did 'know how things were' and he didn't like the sound of whatever Andrew was about to embark on one bit. The Official Secrets Act, he knew they pulled it out for almost anything these days (he couldn't count the number of times he'd signed it) but even so…

He took a deep breath and continued reading the letter that had arrived just as he was leaving this morning, " _If you speak to Uncle Charles would you please tell him the same? I don't have time to write to him as well."_

The concern that had tightened the ever-present knot of worry in his stomach blossomed into fear that made Foyle's blood run cold. Whatever assignment Andrew had been given (or had chosen to take) it was clearly urgent.

 _I don't know what else to say Dad except thanks for everything and please don't do anything daft. I mean if anything happens, you haring off after some rotten smuggler and getting injured isn't going to help is it? Hastings needs its DCS._

 _I'm not trying to say that something is going to happen but its war and I'll feel better about all of this if you'll promise to be careful. Can you do that for me Dad? I promise to do the same so we'll be even._

 _I have to go now but say hello to everyone for me and do take care Dad._

 _Andrew_

Foyle stared at the letter for a long minute and then leaned over and was quietly sick into his wastepaper basket. Fortunately he hadn't lunch yet so there wasn't much to bring up and several minutes later he straightened, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

He rested his elbows on the desk pinching the bridge of his nose; he could feel a headache building and his stomach clenched uncomfortably again. He took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, he needed to deal with the mess and he sorely needed a cup of tea.

Fifteen minutes later Foyle was standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when Sam found him. "Oh hello Sir, I was coming to ask if you wanted tea but I see you've beaten me to it."

Foyle smiled anemically, "Yeah, thank you Sam."

Her cheerful expression had vanished when he turned to face her, replaced by a worried frown, "Mr. Foyle are you alright Sir?"

Foyle took a deep breath. He knew he looked as dreadful as he felt; he had caught a glimpse of himself in the lavatory mirror a few minutes earlier. "Yes, thanks. Just tired."

Sam frowned harder but all she said was, "You'd better let me see to the tea then Sir."

Foyle considered objecting but his head throbbed again so instead he said, "Thank you Sam. Best take a cup to Milner as well." Sam nodded and with another weak smile Foyle left the room.

The tea, strong with just a hint of sugar, helped a bit but the chill that had settled over him after reading Andrew's letter was not so easily dispelled. His son was no fool and for him to write in such a manner meant he didn't like his chances of coming back alive.

He read the letter again. It was just as chilling and Foyle was quietly sick into his wastebasket for a second time. He had been lucky the first time he supposed that no one had been in the hall but the knock that sounded on his door indicated that he hadn't been so lucky this time. He wiped his mouth again before calling for them to enter.

The door opened to reveal his sergeant, "Yes Milner?"

Milner's expression was serious as he came into the room and closed the door behind him. "I wanted to…that is to say, are you alright Sir? Sam said you didn't look well earlier and I have to say I agree with her Sir."

Foyle sighed and rubbed a hand across his face, there was little point denying it. "I'm not feeling my best but I'll be fine, thank you Milner."

Milner looked neither reassured nor convinced, "If you're ill Sir you ought to go home. There isn't anything pressing on at the moment and we're short staffed as it is, can't afford to have the men getting ill."

It's a last resort Foyle knew, bringing up the men like that and he sighed again and gestured to the letter laying on his desk. "I'm not ill Milner, just got a rather…unsettling letter…from Andrew."

Milner went perfectly still and for some reason Foyle kept talking, "It would appear he's agreed to…something quite dangerous, not that flying a spitfire isn't that already but…"

He trailed off and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and for several long minutes there was silence. Finally Foyle took a deep breath and looked up, Milner hadn't moved, his expression torn between concern and understanding.

"I…I always found the waiting to be the worst…too much time to think…" Milner said quietly and Foyle nodded even as his eyes widened in surprise; Milner rarely if ever mentioned his time in the army. "I'll ask Sgt. Rivers if anything's come in for you Sir."

"Thank you Milner, and if you could tell Sam not to fuss…"

Milner nodded, "Of course Sir, I'll be back in a moment." There was no telegram that day but from then until he got another (more cheerful) letter from Andrew nearly a month later, every telegram he didn't collect himself was delivered by Milner and usually followed ten minutes later by a cup of tea from Sam.

Foyle didn't know how to thank them so instead he treated them both to lunch the day he heard from Andrew and hoped that they would understand what he couldn't frame into words.


	13. Chapter 13 - The Reply - Part 2

1944

Foyle sat in his shirtsleeves tie loosened, waistcoat and cuff links undone, his pen poised over a blank sheet of letter paper. He had been sitting in the same position for well over a quarter of an hour.

A tumbler of scotch sat untouched on the desk next to the letter he had received from Andrew earlier that day. The letter that had filled him with so much fear that he had actually been sick to his stomach several times since reading it.

It had to be answered promptly, the urgency of what Andrew had been about to undertake combined with the tone left Foyle in no doubt of that. The problem was that he had no idea what to say. ' _What were you supposed to say when your son begged you to be careful because he didn't think he'd live to make it home again?'_

He shivered, chilled to the marrow by the thought. ' _How can I possibly go on without him Rose?'_ As he studied his wife's portrait the words he needed suddenly came to him.

 _Dear Andrew,_

 _I received your letter this morning and hope that this will reach you before your mission (whatever it may be). There are so many things I wish to tell you son but I know you won't have much time so I will try and keep this brief._

 _Remember that photograph I gave you when you left for Oxford? If you have it close at hand take it out, I'd like to tell you a story about the day it was taken. When I gave it to you I remember you saying that you'd never seen me smile that way in a photograph and it's true, but I had a very good reason for smiling that day son; just two days before your Mum had told me you were on the way._

 _We were so very, very happy that our family of two would soon become a family of three. Of course we didn't know until you got here, 7 months later, that it was you we were getting, but if we had our choice I know we could not have chosen a better son._

 _We had 13 years of being a family of three before we became a family of two again and they were 13 of the happiest years of my life. I will always miss your Mum Andrew but I also know that she wanted us was to carry on and live full and happy lives._

 _Your Mum would be so proud of you Andrew, just as I am. This war has brought an unexpected chapter but, God willing, it is only a chapter Andrew. I know that at times it seems like it will never end but it will son, just as the one before it did, we just have to hold on until it does._

 _You asked me to make you a promise in your letter so I shall return the favour. I promise that I shall be careful if you will promise me that you will try and hold on. I know that you are exhausted Andrew but I need you to try son. Promise me that you will try and believe that the sun will rise tomorrow and you will be here to see it. Can you do that for me Andrew?_

 _I know you said you don't expect to have time to write so write when you can son and if you still have that photograph keep it close and remember that Mum and I are with you always._

 _Take care Andrew,_

 _Dad_

Foyle read the letter over several times and then rose, leaving it on his desk to dry as he finally took a sip of scotch. He sank into his armchair and turned his gaze on the small photograph that had been taken when Andrew first got his wings. It was tucked into the frame of Rosalind's portrait and his eyes flicked up to his wife's face. ' _Keep him safe for me my love_.'

* * *

A/N: I realize these last two chapters may not fit well into the timeline of the actual show but I wanted to explore what Foyle's reaction to Andrew sending him that type of letter would be and I hope that I have done so in a way that remains true to his character.


	14. Chapter 14 - Another Letter - part 3

_Dear Dad,_

 _I've thought about writing this letter so many times I can't quite believe I'm actually getting to write it now. It's done. I can't say anything else about it and likely never will be able to but it's over and I've made it through._

 _I've even been promised a few days leave. Not enough to get home of course (I wish it were) but as it is I think I'll just try and find somewhere with a half-decent bed and sleep for as long as I can._

 _I hope you're all right and that the last few weeks haven't been too hard on you. I hated writing that letter Dad, hated worrying you like that but it seemed like the best thing to do at the time. I'm sorry for making you fret so, truly I am._

 _I promise that I'm all right, and once I've gotten some sleep I'll try and write you a longer more coherent letter (I only got officially stood down thirty minutes ago)._

 _Please tell Uncle Charles and Auntie Alice I say hello, Maggie and Gracie too if you see them. I miss you all and think of you daily. The post is about to go and I'm in desperate need of a cup of tea before bed so I'll sign off._

 _Take care Dad and thank you, your letter helped more than you'll ever know._

 _Andrew_

The paper was slightly crumpled and the writing was messy even by Andrew's standards with splotches of ink scattered across the page. It was the best letter Foyle had ever received.

He sank back into his chair, blinking back the tears that were trying to fall. Andrew was alive. The letter was at least a week old now so Andrew's leave had presumably come and gone but whatever ghastly mission he'd been on was finished and for the moment that was enough.

Foyle didn't move until brisk knocking on the front door recalled him to his surroundings. He ran a hand over his face and got to his feet trying to collect himself.

"Good morning Sir!" Sam said cheerfully as he opened the door and then frowned as she got a good look at him. "Mr. Foyle, is everything all right?"

Foyle nodded, "Yes, thanks Sam. Just running a bit behind, do come in." He stepped aside so she could come into the hall and then turned, buttoning his waistcoat as he went to collect his jacket.

Sam was unusually quiet on the drive to the station, which Foyle was grateful for as it gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. He needed to tell Hugh and call Charles and then there were Sam and Milner.

He chewed rapidly on his cheek, so lost in his thoughts that it took him several moments to realize that they had reached the station. He glanced up and found Sam studying him worriedly.

Foyle forced a smile; "Unless something new has come in I don't expect us to have many calls to make today I'm afraid."

"That's alright Sir, I'll ask Sgt. Rivers if there's anything I can help with."

Foyle nodded as he got out of the car, "I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

He had just settled behind his desk when there was a knock at his door; Foyle bit back a sigh as he called for them to enter. It turned out to be Milner with two cups of tea.

"Morning Sir" Milner's limp was more pronounced than usual as he crossed to the desk but Foyle forced himself to remain seated, knowing that the dampness of this morning's weather was most likely to blame. "Sam just made a fresh pot and I thought you might like a cup."

Foyle took the offered cup, "Thank you Milner." He took a sip and then gestured to the other chair "Anything come in this morning?"

They spoke about station business as they drank their tea and more than once Foyle caught Milner looking at him with a worried frown. No doubt Sam said something to him about earlier, possibly even put him up to bringing in the tea in the hopes of eliciting more information.

Foyle put his cup down, one hand fingering the letter that rested in his inside breast pocket as he chewed thoughtfully on his cheek. "Sir?"

He was jolted from his thoughts for the third time in an hour and frowned at himself, "Sorry?"

Milner was studying him with unguarded concern, "I asked…that is to say are you alright Sir? You don't seem quite yourself this morning."

The question was poised in the same gentle manner that Foyle had come to expect from Milner when he dealt with a victim's family and he felt a stab of guilt for worrying them both so when it was good news that he had to share.

"I'm fine, thank you Milner." Foyle took a deep breath and then continued, "Got a letter from Andrew this morning," he glanced up, Milner was watching him steadily, "He's alright, that mission's done and…he's alright."

His voice had faded to a hoarse whisper and he looked down again. Saying it aloud made it real and he had to fight against the swell of emotion that was building in his chest.

There was a long pause and then Milner spoke, his voice low and warm, "I'm very glad to hear that Sir."

Foyle nodded, "So am I."

Milner nodded understandingly and made to get to his feet, "I'm sure you are Sir. May I tell Sam?"

"Yes of course and Paul?" Milner paused, eyes widening slightly at the rare use of his Christian name. "Thank you, you and Sam have been…"

He trailed off a little awkwardly but Milner just nodded and smiled warmly; "Your very welcome Sir. I'll bring my report by when it's ready."

Foyle nodded gratefully, waiting till the door closed behind Milner to reach for the telephone and asking the operator to connect him with the Admiralty.

* * *

A/N: It occurred to me that I had left this as a bit of a cliff-hanger and I wanted to provide the conclusion for anyone who cared to read it.


	15. Chapter 15

August 1940

The phone rang and the pilots who filled the dispersal hut all looked up sharply, most got to their feet and a few dug a photograph or letter out of their tunic pocket, studying it carefully in the tense minutes that followed.

Finally Turner replaced the receiver and turned towards them, it was unusual for a Wing Co to stay in the dispersal hut but Turner did, even at times like this when it was the middle of the night; it was one of the reasons he was so popular with his pilots. He did everything he was asking them too, except actually take a spit up but the all knew that was only because regulation expressly forbade him from going into combat.

They'd managed to convince him to go up on a training flight once, a few weeks after Andrew had been posted, just before things really picked up. He had handled his spit with ease and then shown them a few tricks that had saved more than a few of their lives.

Now he was smiling, a thin weary smile but Andrew still felt his shoulders slump in anticipatory relief even before Turner said, "Stand down to 30 minute readiness lads."

There was a collective sigh of relief before the usual stand down chaos began. They had given up going back to the barracks for anything less than a promised 3 hours reprieve weeks ago and now simply slept of the floor of the dispersal hut.

"Dibs on the far wall!"

"Bugger off you had it last time!"

There was some friendly pushing and shoving and Turner chuckled softly and giving them a gentle admonishment to, "Get some rest lads" he left the hut, presumably for his quarters.

Andrew glanced around, most of the lads were stretched out on the floor already, one or two were even asleep, but Rex had taken up his customary position standing in the corner, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall.

Andrew sighed and crossed to him, "Rex come on, you're going to get a crick in your neck again…"

Rex rolled his eyes, "I'm fine Foyle"

It was his Squadron Leader voice but they weren't in the air so Andrew didn't feel obliged to obey. "I won't have you ending up in the Channel because you can't look over your left shoulder."

" _Andrew_ …"

Andrew shook his head and took a step closer, letting his hand rest lightly on Rex's arm as he lowered his voice, "Look I know that you don't like being too close to the other chaps but they've settled now. You can take a spot on the outside and I'll sleep between them and you alright?"

Rex's face did something complicated that Andrew was far too tired to try and decipher and then he sighed and gave Andrew a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Alright Foyle, you win"

Andrew grinned and led the way back across the hut, careful to choose a spot were Rex would have plenty of space to himself before stripping off his flight jacket, so he could use it as a pillow, and lying down.

Rex hesitated for a minute and then did the same. Andrew shifted to get comfortable and then closed his eyes; sleep was hovering but he struggled to stay awake long enough to make sure Rex didn't return to his usual post.

"Good night Andrew"

The words were soft and with his eyes closed Andrew could pretend they were little boys again, playing at being stranded on a desert island like Robinson Crusoe and sleeping on the living room floor, "Night, Rex."

When the sound of the door swinging shut woke Andrew sometime later the first thing he saw was Rex. He was still asleep his head now pillowed on Andrew's shoulder, dark hair tousled and the hint of a smile on his lips.

Andrew listened for a moment but all he heard was deep breathing and a few snores, clearly the door had just been one of the lads going for a smoke or a cup of tea. He glanced at Rex again and then closed his eyes and fell back to sleep smiling.

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the original disappearance of chapter 15, I realized I had posted the wrong one by mistake - TT-5


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